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    Thursday, January 29
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    “The relocation of projects may look like responsive governance, but it also suggests uncertainty and a lack of confidence in decision-making. Projects are announced without adequate consultation, triggering public anger. Then, instead of resolving concerns through transparent dialogue, the government steps back and shifts plans elsewhere. The cycle repeats. What emerges is not participatory planning, but governance by retreat. There is also the issue of precedent. When projects are moved solely because protests gain momentum, it signals that volume matters more than substance. “ Whose Victory Is This, After All? When the Goa government decided to move two proposed projects out of Chimbel village following sustained protests, the announcement was greeted as a triumph by local residents and activist groups. The projects may be relocated, the immediate tension may ease, and the banners may come down. But once the dust settles, a more uncomfortable question remains. Whose victory is this, really? For the people of Chimbel, the decision feels like vindication. They organised, protested, and forced the state to retreat. In a democracy where citizens often feel ignored, such outcomes are empowering. They reaffirm the idea that collective voices can still influence power. Environmental concerns, fears of overdevelopment, and anxieties about the loss of community spaces were brought to the forefront, and the government was compelled to respond. Yet this moment of celebration also exposes a troubling pattern that Goa can no longer afford to ignore. Over the past few years, almost every major project, whether administrative, cultural, or economic, has been met with immediate resistance. The default response has shifted from questioning and engagement to outright rejection. Protest has become the starting point, not the last resort. The relocation of projects may look like responsive governance, but it also suggests uncertainty and a lack of confidence in decision-making. Projects are announced without adequate consultation, triggering public anger. Then, instead of resolving concerns through transparent dialogue, the government steps back and shifts plans elsewhere. The cycle repeats. What emerges is not participatory planning, but governance by retreat. There is also the issue of precedent. When projects are moved solely because protests gain momentum, it signals that volume matters more than substance. Technical assessments, planning studies, and expert evaluations begin to carry less weight than street pressure. Over time, this undermines institutional credibility and encourages a belief that nothing should proceed without confrontation. This is not to say that protests in Chimbel were unjustified. Communities have a right to defend their environment and demand accountability. Goa’s fragile ecology and limited land demand caution, not blind expansion. But caution does not mean paralysis. A state cannot function if every proposal is seen as a threat and every decision becomes negotiable only through agitation. The bigger concern is what happens next. The projects have not been scrapped, only shifted. Another village will now face similar uncertainty, similar fears, and possibly similar protests. The problem has not been resolved. It has merely been displaced. That is not victory. It is a postponement. For the government, this episode should be a wake-up call. Announcing projects without building trust is a recipe for conflict. Public consultations cannot be symbolic exercises held after decisions are made. They must be genuine, early, and continuous. People resist what they do not understand or feel excluded from. For civil society, introspection is equally necessary. Protest is a powerful democratic tool, but when used indiscriminately, it loses moral clarity. If every development is opposed without offering alternatives, the narrative shifts from protection to obstruction. So whose victory is this? It is a partial win for local resistance, a temporary relief for one village, and a political escape for the government. But for Goa as a whole, it is neither progress nor resolution. True victory will come when development is planned with people, not imposed on them, and when opposition is rooted in dialogue rather than default distrust. Until then, every retreat will look like a win, but feel increasingly hollow.

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    “The relocation of projects may look like responsive governance, but it also suggests uncertainty and a lack of confidence in decision-making. Projects are announced without adequate consultation, triggering public anger. Then, instead of resolving concerns through transparent dialogue, the government steps back and shifts plans elsewhere. The cycle repeats. What emerges is not participatory planning, but governance by retreat.

    There is also the issue of precedent. When projects are moved solely because protests gain momentum, it signals that volume matters more than substance. “

    When the Goa government decided to move two proposed projects out of Chimbel village following sustained protests, the announcement was greeted as a triumph by local residents and activist groups. The projects may be relocated, the immediate tension may ease, and the banners may come down. But once the dust settles, a more uncomfortable question remains. Whose victory is this, really?

    For the people of Chimbel, the decision feels like vindication. They organised, protested, and forced the state to retreat. In a democracy where citizens often feel ignored, such outcomes are empowering. They reaffirm the idea that collective voices can still influence power. Environmental concerns, fears of overdevelopment, and anxieties about the loss of community spaces were brought to the forefront, and the government was compelled to respond.

    Yet this moment of celebration also exposes a troubling pattern that Goa can no longer afford to ignore. Over the past few years, almost every major project, whether administrative, cultural, or economic, has been met with immediate resistance. The default response has shifted from questioning and engagement to outright rejection. Protest has become the starting point, not the last resort.

    The relocation of projects may look like responsive governance, but it also suggests uncertainty and a lack of confidence in decision-making. Projects are announced without adequate consultation, triggering public anger. Then, instead of resolving concerns through transparent dialogue, the government steps back and shifts plans elsewhere. The cycle repeats. What emerges is not participatory planning, but governance by retreat.

    There is also the issue of precedent. When projects are moved solely because protests gain momentum, it signals that volume matters more than substance. Technical assessments, planning studies, and expert evaluations begin to carry less weight than street pressure. Over time, this undermines institutional credibility and encourages a belief that nothing should proceed without confrontation.

    This is not to say that protests in Chimbel were unjustified. Communities have a right to defend their environment and demand accountability. Goa’s fragile ecology and limited land demand caution, not blind expansion. But caution does not mean paralysis. A state cannot function if every proposal is seen as a threat and every decision becomes negotiable only through agitation.

    The bigger concern is what happens next. The projects have not been scrapped, only shifted. Another village will now face similar uncertainty, similar fears, and possibly similar protests. The problem has not been resolved. It has merely been displaced. That is not victory. It is a postponement.

    For the government, this episode should be a wake-up call. Announcing projects without building trust is a recipe for conflict. Public consultations cannot be symbolic exercises held after decisions are made. They must be genuine, early, and continuous. People resist what they do not understand or feel excluded from.

    For civil society, introspection is equally necessary. Protest is a powerful democratic tool, but when used indiscriminately, it loses moral clarity. If every development is opposed without offering alternatives, the narrative shifts from protection to obstruction.

    So whose victory is this? It is a partial win for local resistance, a temporary relief for one village, and a political escape for the government. But for Goa as a whole, it is neither progress nor resolution. True victory will come when development is planned with people, not imposed on them, and when opposition is rooted in dialogue rather than default distrust. Until then, every retreat will look like a win, but feel increasingly hollow.

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    “The Samiti argues that farmers were cheated, that some have not been paid at all, and that the same land is now being discussed for five-star hotels, gaming, and high-profile festivals. If these claims are true, the government owes affected families transparency, speed, and justice. No development narrative can survive if people who lost their land are left waiting for years. On that point, the anger is understandable. Yet the opposition to the racing festival is not being positioned as a demand for accountability. It is being presented as a blanket rejection. The language is absolute. “We will not allow unnecessary events.” “Return the land to the farmers.” “Take the festival elsewhere.” This is not a negotiation. It is a veto.” Protest as Default: Is Goa Opposing Itself Into a Corner? Goa’s politics of protest has reached a point where it is worth asking an uncomfortable question. Are we opposing specific policies and projects, or have we inadvertently become opposed to everything by reflex? The latest flashpoint is the proposed Indian Racing Festival at the premises of Manohar International Airport in Mopa. The Goa Kul Mundkar Sangarsh Samiti has demanded that the event be cancelled, arguing that farmers and residents of Pernem were misled during the land acquisition process for the airport and have yet to receive full compensation. These grievances are serious and cannot be brushed aside. Land acquisition in Goa has a long and troubled history, and distrust between communities and the state did not arise overnight. But the leap from unresolved compensation issues to outright rejection of a short-term sporting event raises deeper questions about where Goa is headed and how public dissent is being framed. The Samiti argues that farmers were cheated, that some have not been paid at all, and that the same land is now being discussed for five-star hotels, gaming, and high-profile festivals. If these claims are true, the government owes affected families transparency, speed, and justice. No development narrative can survive if people who lost their land are left waiting for years. On that point, the anger is understandable. Yet the opposition to the racing festival is not being positioned as a demand for accountability. It is being presented as a blanket rejection. The language is absolute. “We will not allow unnecessary events.” “Return the land to the farmers.” “Take the festival elsewhere.” This is not a negotiation. It is a veto. This pattern is familiar. The festival was earlier proposed in Mormugao and dropped after protests. Now it has moved to Pernem, and the same resistance has followed. The question Santosh Mandrekar asks is revealing. Why does the government shift events from one place to another when people oppose them? The counter-question is equally important. Is there any place left in Goa where people will not oppose them? If every large event, infrastructure project, or economic initiative is met with the same response, the problem is no longer just governance. It is also a crisis of consensus. Goa cannot simultaneously demand jobs for youth, diversification beyond tourism, global visibility, and higher revenues, while rejecting every attempt to host events that bring investment, visitors, and attention. An international racing festival is not a casino. It is not a township project. It is a temporary event using existing infrastructure. To equate it with permanent land misuse blurs important distinctions and weakens genuine causes. There is also a troubling tendency to conflate unresolved past wrongs with present proposals. If farmers have not been compensated, that issue must be fought on its own terms through courts, audits, and sustained public pressure. Blocking unrelated activities does not resolve compensation disputes. It only ensures that the airport remains underutilised and politically radioactive. The demand to move the festival to Sanquelim or Valpoi illustrates another contradiction. If racing events are acceptable there, why are they unacceptable in Pernem? Are some regions expected to absorb development while others remain permanently frozen? This selective opposition risks deepening regional fault lines rather than addressing injustice. At some point, Goa needs to decide what it wants its future to look like. An airport cannot exist only as a symbol of betrayal. It must also function as an economic engine, or it becomes a monument to paralysis. That does not mean ignoring local voices or bulldozing dissent. It means engaging honestly, separating legitimate grievances from ideological opposition, and being clear about what is negotiable and what is not. The government, for its part, has contributed to this mess. Poor communication, delayed compensation, and a habit of announcing decisions without local consultation have eroded trust. Transparency should not be an afterthought. It should come before dates are declared and banners printed. But protest movements also need introspection. If the answer to every proposal is no, the question eventually turns inward. Are we protecting Goa, or are we trapping it in a cycle where fear of change outweighs the possibility of reform? Goa deserves better than governance by stealth and opposition by default. Development without justice is unacceptable. But so is a future where nothing moves because everything is opposed. The challenge is not choosing one over the other. It is learning, finally, how to hold both together.

    “Even projects undertaken by the Housing Board itself have become unaffordable. Flats and plots that should have been priced to match local incomes are instead pegged at rates that cater comfortably to buyers from outside Goa. A double-bedroom flat costing ₹65 lakh is now being presented as normal. The question that needs to be asked honestly is simple. For whom is this normal? For many Goans, this is an impossible figure. For buyers from Delhi, Mumbai or other metropolitan cities, it is often seen as a bargain. This mismatch has consequences. There have been repeated instances where Housing Board plots and flats have ended up in the hands of non-Goans, legally but questionably.” Goa Housing Board Has a New Home, But Where Do Goans Live? The Chief Minister, Dr Pramod Sawant, recently inaugurated the new office of the Goa Housing Board. It is a plush, modern building. Photographs show clean lines, fresh paint, and the promise of efficiency. Yet outside its walls lies an uncomfortable question that the state seems unwilling to confront. If the Housing Board has found itself a new home, what about the people of Goa for whom it was created? The Goa Housing Board was established with a clear social purpose. It was intended to provide affordable housing for Goans, particularly middle-class and lower-income families, in a state where land is scarce and demand is high. That purpose today stands diluted, if not entirely defeated. Housing, instead of becoming more accessible, has steadily slipped out of the hands of Goans. Across Goa, land prices and apartment rates have soared beyond the reach of local families. This is not an abstract complaint but a lived reality. Young Goans with stable jobs are unable to buy homes in their own villages or towns. Families that once dreamt of settling their children close by now see them pushed to the fringes or out of the state altogether. The irony is painful when this crisis is unfolding under the watch of an institution meant to prevent precisely this outcome. Even projects undertaken by the Housing Board itself have become unaffordable. Flats and plots that should have been priced to match local incomes are instead pegged at rates that cater comfortably to buyers from outside Goa. A double-bedroom flat costing ₹65 lakh is now being presented as normal. The question that needs to be asked honestly is simple. For whom is this normal? For many Goans, this is an impossible figure. For buyers from Delhi, Mumbai or other metropolitan cities, it is often seen as a bargain. This mismatch has consequences. There have been repeated instances where Housing Board plots and flats have ended up in the hands of non-Goans, legally but questionably. Meanwhile, Goans watch their applications rejected, their savings fall short and their hopes collapse. Dreams of owning a modest home turn into long-term debt or permanent displacement. The deeper problem lies not only in pricing but in policy intent. The Housing Board appears to have drifted from its original mandate. Instead of acting as a protective institution for Goans, it increasingly mirrors the open market, where purchasing power alone decides access. When state-backed housing becomes indistinguishable from private real estate, the social contract is broken. This trend feeds into a larger fear simmering across Goa. Slowly but steadily, Goans feel pushed out of their own land. Coastal villages, urban centres, and even hinterland areas are witnessing a demographic shift driven by speculative buying and external capital. Housing becomes an investment asset rather than a basic need. In such a climate, celebrating a new office building rings hollow. What Goa needs is not better offices, but better outcomes. The government must revisit the Housing Board’s role with urgency. Are there strict eligibility criteria that genuinely prioritise Goans? Are there price caps linked to local income levels? Are resale restrictions enforced to prevent speculative flipping? These are not radical ideas. They are standard tools used by governments that take affordable housing seriously. There is also a moral dimension that cannot be ignored. Housing is not just about shelter. It is about belonging, continuity, and dignity. When Goans are forced to leave because they cannot afford to live here, the social fabric of the state weakens. Culture, language, and community life suffer quiet erosion. The inauguration of a plush office should have been an occasion to recommit to the Housing Board’s founding purpose. Instead, it risks becoming a symbol of misplaced priorities. Infrastructure without intent serves little purpose. Goa does not need grand buildings to administer policies that fail its people. If the Housing Board is to remain relevant, it must answer the most pressing question facing Goans today. Not where its officials sit, but where Goans will live.